Hey Blue Trunks
by Trogdor19
Summary: Logan and I have a little thing we do, on the beach...


_Author's Note: This is payback bc despite the gloriousness of the tiny blue trunks, I didn't love that beach scene in 4x01 as much as I wanted to. While it bears a resemblance to the 4x01 scene, this is from the AU universe of my fic Lemonade, in which L & V got back together in college and are happily married. So no movie, no navy, no S4, and they're in their 20s in this._

**Veronica**

Logan and I have a little thing we do, on the beach. It started because in one of my more jealous moments, I accused him of only surfing because of all the female attention he got when he came back to the beach. He laughed in my face. Didn't even explain, just laughed and laughed and laughed.

I knew I wasn't wrong about how much female attention he was catching, so the next day I did what any good wife with a PI license would do. I set up a stakeout. Rented a beachside hotel room, got a directional mic and binoculars…and watched him blow off three different girls just in the hundred feet of sand between the waves and our house.

The next day, five girls.

On the weekends, he usually busted double digits. And possibly I should be more upset about this—female solidarity and all—but he wasn't even nice about it. His responses ranged from stoic and pained to sarcastic to downright cruel. And God help the ones who crossed out of the look-but-don't-touch plan. It was obvious, even through my cheapest binoculars, that the gauntlet across the beach was usually enough to ruin the smile he came out of the surf with.

After a little over a week of surveillance, I took pity on him and started going down to the beach to walk him home.

I was working a super depressing child abduction case at the time and it was the most fun I'd had in weeks. I played out every revenge fantasy I'd ever had from all those times we were broken up and I had to watch some other woman's hands all over him. Not to mention all the times women flirted with him when we were out together, like I wasn't pretty enough or _something_ enough to be a real threat. Despite, you know, the wedding ring and all.

After that, I came back to the beach day after day to play my new favorite game. I got to tell off girls flirting with my man. Sometimes pretend I didn't know him so I could out-flirt them. Sometimes just stand to the side and cock an eyebrow so they had to watch him choose me—even when I was wearing my laundry day mom jeans and hadn't showered since Monday. And Logan indulged me outrageously.

Laughed his ass off at some of my antics, and the rest of the time, played along like a pro, no matter what outrageous story or gambit I came up with. He never tried for a second to rein me in. He even let me slap one of the handsy ones right across the face.

Then again, I guess if I was waiting for somebody to play my conscience, I shouldn't have held my breath on it being _Logan_.

The only time he interfered was when I went down in a full-on bitch-pile of sorority girls on spring break. I've never seen my husband hit a female, but I will say when he pulled me out of that pile, a couple of Tri-Delts went airborne.

Today, as he picks up his board and starts to stride out of the surf, I take a long, delicious look at those abs. Then I shade my eyes from the sun and scan the beach, looking for who has their dirty little eyes on my husband. It never takes long.

Quickly, I zero in on three different groups of girls, and a pickpocket. However, the guy who just lost his wallet is wearing Versace swim trunks, so I figure he can spare the change. No way I'm missing playtime for some rich asshole who won't even be able to tell me how much cash he had on him before he lost it. I eeny and meany for a second, then pick the group of girls whose tummies are as tight as mine used to be.

Vindictive, yes. Mature? Not even remotely. Fun? You betcha.

I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and sidle up to the tight tummy girls. "Ooh, you spotted a live one, hmm?"

They pause, fists extended on hands. "Butt out, we're already through the first round."

God in heaven, they've already started the rock paper scissors tournament for who gets him. These girls are lucky I didn't bring my taser.

"Bummer." I pout. "Winner plays me?"

Three scowls, three head shakes. "Aren't you a little old for him, anyway?" one suggests.

"But I just got my Botox last week!" I huff and slap a hand to my forehead as if to cover the evidence.

"Yeah…" Tight Tummy #2 says. "Might want to go in for a refresher. Do you want the name of my guy? He gives double the legal injection, no questions asked."

"Um…" I tilt my head. "I do, actually. Do you have his card?"

She digs in her beach bag while I keep a protective eye on Logan, who's shaking the water out of his hair at the edge of the water. I take the card and give it a glance. Tight Tummy #3 looks young enough that her ID is still fake, and I wouldn't mind knowing which local plastic surgeon is giving Botox to babies.

Yup, Dr. Thomas Griffith is the name on the card. No surprises there. I'll pay Hannah's daddy a little visit next week and remind him it's spelled e-t-h-i-c-s. In case he forgot.

Tight Tummy #3 turns away from me, her public service to the elderly done for one spring break, and loses her shot with Logan to a poorly chosen throw of paper.

I don't argue with the girl who won, just cup my hands over my mouth. This is my favorite part. When I yell for him, and his eyes light up and feet swivel my way, but he keeps the rest of his face blank, a clean slate for whatever bit I feel like improvising for us today.

"Hey, blue trunks!"

Ah, there it is. The light up. My toes squirm in my flip flops. Jesus Christ, the man turns me to goo. It would be embarrassing, if I didn't enjoy it so much.

"Hey, uh, can you help me with something?" I put on my best valley girl accent, for the occasion. "It's about penises."

"Yeah." He shrugs one glistening shoulder. "I've got one. Need it?"

I almost lose hold of a laugh, but swallow it back before it ruins my deadpan. I add a nose crinkle.

"Well, depends. See, I read this article. Like, online? And it said the average size for a penis was basically…five inches. And I thought that is just _too_ depressing." I look to the tight tummy girls for support. One of them nods like "Amen, sister," but the others are frozen in horror, staring at me like they can't believe I just said that.

I tilt my head at Logan. "So, I'm carrying out a personal investigation. Field work, you know. Help a girl out? Little peek inside the blue trunks?"

He shifts his grip on his board. "I would, but the water's kinda cold today. Might skew your bell curve."

I pop my gum and wink. "I can help with that?"

"Yeah?" He plays dumb, a spark in his eye that says he wants to see how dirty I'll get in front of these girls. "How?"

"Oh, you need me to spell it out?" I crack my gum again. "Starts with a B, ends with a J."

"All right." He shrugs. "For science. Where do you want to do this?"

"I dunno. Behind the bathrooms? The sand's nice and soft back there, for my knees." I smile sweetly at him and he shifts his board more noticeably this time.

One of the gaping girls starts to sputter. "You…slut! You can't just like…ask to see a man's penis size!"

I grin. "Ask and you shall receive, ladies."

Logan takes my hand and we stroll off toward the bathrooms.

"You kiss your father with that mouth?" he says in an undertone. "Damn, Bobcat. If I didn't have my board for cover, I'd be getting a ticket right about now."

"Hey, don't blame me for your little situation there, champ. I told you to buy bigger swim trunks."


End file.
